The Fashion Dictates of a SuperMan
by Bumpkin
Summary: Young Clark Kent is finding keeping up with the regular teen fashion trends a bit more difficult than his peers, in a mortifying way.


The Fashion Dictates of a Super-Man.   
By Marnie Rowe   
Rating: PG13  
Submitted: August 2001  
  
  
AN: You have my twisted little mind and the input of Missy Gallant on   
IRC to thank for this one. The characters are all borrowed from you   
know where.:)  
  
  
  
"Clark Jerome Kent!" Martha Kent hollered out the back door of the   
farmhouse for her conspicuously absent son, "get your butt in here!"   
Clark winced; she must have found the latest pair of jeans that he had   
ruined. He knew that he should have just told her about them but it was   
the fourth pair this week. He knew that the other boys in his class   
tended to go through their clothes pretty fast, farm living was hard on   
clothes and when you added in a teenage male you had a very limited   
lifespan, but he was going through clothes at an absolutely ridiculous   
rate.  
  
Clark was perched up in his little tree-house, "The Fortress of   
Solitude". It was where he could think the best. He knew that there was   
a link to his strangeness to the way that he was going through the   
clothes; he just had to find out what it was. He really hated to think   
that he was causing so much trouble for his mom and dad, they had done   
so much for him and he knew how much they loved him, but lately keeping   
him decent had been a real challenge.  
  
He would just bend over without hitching his fashionably loose jeans up   
and they would split up the back, and a lot of the time it wasn't just   
his jeans! Then there were the loosely tailored dress pants that they   
would buy him for church, if he forgot and squatted in them the thighs   
would shred. Or he would reach for the prayer book on the back of the   
pew in front of theirs and his dress shirt was vented right up the   
middle of the back. He had learned that if he did not do up his jacket,   
it would rarely suffer the same fate.  
  
Then there was the most mortifying of them all; he had started to have   
certain types of dreams at night. The loose and roomy boxers that he   
favored for sleeping in had not proved to be as loose and roomy as he   
had supposed, at least not in front. Those he did not even show to his   
mother, he couldn't, he was just too embarrassed. How could you tell   
your mother that your adolescent erotic dreams were making you destroy   
your underwear?  
  
Sighing, he climbed down into the cool October chill from his cozy   
built up perch in the crotch of the old oak tree, and made his way up   
to the farm house that glowed cheerily warm in the gathering dusk. He   
could smell that supper was just about done, and realized that he   
should start wearing a coat again even though he did not feel the cold.   
The tight T-shirt that he was wearing with the co-ordinating flannel   
that he had tossed over was hardly warm enough for the late October   
weather, and he had better remember that even around the farm. He had   
to try and remember not to draw too much attention to himself, and his   
lips twisted as he thought how hard that had been lately with his   
clothes betraying him at every turn it seemed.  
  
Martha Kent was a small woman with bright strawberry blond hair heavily   
streaked with grey, still slender with all the work on the farm but you   
could see that she had a generous nature tempered with fire. She looked   
up when her adopted son slouched into the kitchen. She had been about   
to yell at him for just trying to stash the ripped jeans, but she could   
see that ruining the pants was bothering him more than it was bothering   
her, so she just walked over to the fridge and got out the jug of   
buttermilk and held it up, saying only "Clark? Care to talk?" Clark sat   
down at the table and nodded his assent. Martha ignored the guttural   
grunt that seemed to be a new teenage affectation.  
  
She poured out a glass of the creamy mixture and sat down at the table   
and waited for him to start talking, Clark drank down half of the glass   
in one swallow and then playing with the liquid left in the glass he   
started to talk, more like babble really but that was fine with Martha.  
  
"Mom, I am so sorry that I tried to hide the new jeans, I guess that I   
just did not want to show you that I had let you guys down again. It's   
not that I am not careful, it's just that there are times that I have   
to do something in a hurry and then well something like this happens   
and I am costing you guys so much money and I hate to do that and it's   
not even like I can wear them after they are mended because they rip   
again so much faster then, I can't even keep a pair of jeans long   
enough to break them in and so I always look kinda geeky at school   
and..."  
  
The dam had broken, and Martha soon saw that there were a lot of other   
things on Clark's mind than just the fact that he could not keep his   
clothes in good shape. Martha had not even made the connection to his   
'differences' to how he kept going through the clothes either and so   
there at least was something to show her that he had been seriously   
worried.  
  
She sat back and began to think herself. She had noticed a pattern to   
the clothing that had been getting the worst of the lot now that she   
was actually thinking about it. It seemed to be limited to the looser,   
more fashionable stuff, not really affecting certain staple clothing   
like the t-shirts he favored. She eyed the t-shirt that he was wearing   
at the moment and knew that it was at least 3 years old, and it was not   
showing more than average wear and tear from washing. Martha stopped   
and thought. There is no wear and tear from wearing, no little rips, no   
cuts, no worn out spots. She thought to herself, 'Wait a minute, that   
is flimsy material compared to denim, how on earth is that surviving   
when jeans aren't?'  
  
Clark had run down by now and Martha felt a bit guilty for having not   
really listened to him but she supposed that he would forgive her when   
she started to ask her own questions. As was her style she just leapt   
in, "Clark, honey, how long have you had that t-shirt that you are   
wearing?"  
  
He looked down in confusion saying, "my shirt? Umm...I guess three   
years, why?" Martha said, "Well, son, you have not worn through or torn   
it, not like I have gone through numerous ones of similar design, there   
has to be a key in that somewhere. We just have to find it." Clark gave   
her a tremulous smile and she smiled back. Martha continued to make him   
feel better by saying, "And that last pair of jeans happened to rip   
right along the back seam so I can just take them in and they will be   
able to be worn again, they will just be a mite tighter than is   
fashionable. I'll have to take in the thighs and calves as well so that   
they stay balanced looking but that is better than nothing isn't it?"   
Clark's smile broadened into something more like his usual grin and   
they were off to his room to find clues.  
  
Up in Clark's room it looked as if a tornado had hit. Clothes were   
strewn everywhere and sitting right in the middle were Clark and his   
mom. They had decided that the better division of labour was that   
Martha would sit and Clark would pile everything within fairly easy   
reach. The bed was the sorting floor, and there were two piles,   
unscathed for the most part and mostly mended. The ones that had not   
survived were long gone into Martha's sewing basket. Sitting back for a   
bit of a rest they surveyed the unscathed pile, trying to find what   
they all had in common with each other. They were not all the same   
color, nor were they even the same types of clothing. There were t-  
shirts, long johns, shorts, turtle-necks, jogging pants, and there was   
even a pair of jeans. The jeans were made from a stretchy type of   
fabric but they were still jeans. On the much mended pile were the   
clothes that had ripped mostly on seams or places where Martha had been   
able to repair them without being too obvious, but in the process of   
repair like with the new pair of jeans she had to take them in to be   
very tight from what they had started out being.  
  
Clark thought of the clothes that had gone into the sewing bin, the   
ones that had been entirely unfixable, they had been very loose except   
for the loosest of tailoring. It seemed that the closer that he wore   
something the less likely it was to get damaged.  
  
In fact...yeah that might be the ticket.  
  
Like there was that time that he had been helping his dad in the barn   
with the old wheat thresher, trying to get it set up properly and it   
had turned on unexpectedly. They had known that it could not hurt him,   
his invulnerability was already well established at that point, but he   
had expected that his shirt would have been in total ruins by the time   
that his dad had managed to get the power cable unhooked. But it hadn't   
been, it had been dirty and scuffed, but it had not been shredded by   
the powerful blades at all. He had thought that it might have been   
something to do with how tightly the fabric had been stretched at the   
time, but maybe it had been something more than that.  
  
Clark groaned and hung his head, he just knew what it was that needed   
to be done so that he did not wreck any more clothes, but he also   
wanted to try to blend in. How on earth was he going to be able to   
blend in when he was going to have to paint his clothing on? Because he   
had finally figured out that is what had let the clothing in the   
unscathed pile survive, that they were tight to his frame. Martha was   
looking at her son, she guessed that he had figured it out, she too had   
figured out part of it but she figured that it was not her place to say   
anything until he had made the connection on his own, he was after all   
a bright boy. "Clark, honey, I think that I have an idea, you remember   
James Dean?"  
  
Clark looked at his mother and began to smile again, Yes! He knew that   
his mother was brilliant but she must have been reading his face like   
the proverbial open book to come up with such a classy solution to his   
troubles especially since his hair was getting impossible to cut. It   
was a very good thing that it grew so slowly. The next school day Clark   
walked in with his hair combed back severely at the sides the front and   
back hanging, a loose leather jacket hanging off his shoulders. A tight   
white t-shirt tucked into some very snug black jeans riding low on his   
slender hips with a wide belt complete with a huge square buckle   
securing them completed the ensemble. The tightly buckled motorcycle   
boots were a very cool finishing touch, and a new rage for retro in   
Smallville was born. Clark did not stand out at all except from the   
eyes of the girls as a great catch and from the mother's as a curse for   
many shopping days that they felt were un-called for.  
  
END ~Pobody's Nerfect 


End file.
